Step Forward
by ncfan
Summary: -Retsu, Juushiro- He was stronger than she gave him credit for.


**Characters**: Retsu, Juushiro**  
Summary**: He was stronger than she gave him credit for.**  
Pairings**: None**  
Warnings/Spoilers**: None**  
Timeline**: pre-manga**  
Author's Note**: The way I see it, since Yamamoto seems to be centered on combat and law and order himself, he probably didn't give a great deal of thought to kido of any kind, let along healing kido, so the use of healing kido hasn't been thought of yet at this point (For the purposes of the story).**  
Disclaimer**: I don't own Bleach.

* * *

She is called because she is the best and brightest of Soul Society's up-and-coming young physicians; at least, that's what she thinks at first (She's proud of her abilities in medicine and with good reason). When Retsu feels the cold pall of Death—_not Shinigami but a Death far more ominous than that_—clinging like cobwebs to the walls of the house as she comes up the walk she also knows that she has been called because she is the bravest. No one else would walk willingly into a building marked with the great burnt slash mark used in Soul Society to denote a house infected with consumption.

It's been a pandemic; there are no words Retsu can find in herself to describe the loss of life, the destruction. Thousands dead, maybe even more, their corpses burned together and their souls thrust bodily back into the process of incarnation and reincarnation. Even though Seireitei is protected by virtue of the isolation of its high walls, there has been death there, too. The Kuchiki have reported the loss of three servants and two of their younger children; from the Shihoin and the other clans, much the same. Death is indiscriminate, and though it does not come close to existing on the same scales as it does in Rukongai, it's there.

Frowning tiredly and fearing what she may find inside, Retsu tries to dredge up the knowledge of whose house this is—_So many nights without the benefit of rest plays havoc with her memory of names and faces_. Retsu remembers after a few moments of grappling: Ukitake family home, four servants dead and one of its children afflicted, no further spread, et cetera. All information but the reason she's here is irrelevant.

Retsu remembers the name of the boy who has been infected. Ukitake Juushiro, eldest sibling, and indeed when she greets the boy's parents there are several pairs of eyes, peeking out from behind their parents' legs, sclera and dark irises highly visible in the post-dusk, pre-midnight gloom. Emotions are clear from these eyes—six pairs, no seven, no five (it's hard to tell; they keep darting around like little dusky birds): half-awed and half-fearful at the sight of the fresh-faced, almost-inhuman-in-her-serenity young woman who promises to make everything alright again. At least as far as her abilities allow.

Without saying a word to the pale man and the even paler woman, Retsu nods and, shifting her bag with its clinking instruments, ventures into the dark house.

The candles have all been doused—_running low, running out; this family, however noble, is not a wealthy one_—and the halls, thought it is the muggy interim between spring and summer outside, are cool and damply chill. This, Retsu knows, is not the atmosphere that should be cultivated for a sufferer of consumption; far from it. Warmth without humidity would be better, far better.

Retsu sighs. She can't pick her battles. However…

_I just wish, so much, that the cancer of sickness could be swept away like dust from a floor_.

Small chances obliterate her hopes, and Retsu forces into her mind the truth that there is nothing but the treatment and nothing she can do but try to stem the flow of death with one hand free and the other grasping a lancet and bowl.

The people inside are different. While the Ukitake family, gathered outside, did not shy away from Retsu's gaze, she can hardly say that she receives the same treatment here. People who are more like shadows dart away from her, shoulders hunched, eventually melting into the darkened walls, invisible. They avoid the scrutiny of any, though they still feel Death all too close and they especially wish to avoid her, a Shinigami—_Even if it wasn't for her black clothes they'd still be able to sense Retsu's aura._

Eventually, Retsu comes to the door that the heads of the household told her to look for. A single diagonal slash mark, smelling of smoke, stands out against the darkness, glittering dully. Without hesitation Retsu pushes open the door, and she is immediately hit with the foul odor of sweat and the musty, overpowering smell of death.

This was the right place to come.

"Hello?" Retsu calls softly, mouth working for the first time all evening. Her voice is smoke-cracked and slightly hoarse. "Are you there?"

Retsu receives no answer. Her brow knits.

It isn't long before she comes into contact with the dark chamber's inhabitant. Her foot comes up against something soft and Retsu immediately reaches into her bag for a candle. After fumbling with a bit of kindling and flint the dry wood finally ignites and Retsu lights her candle.

Ukitake Juushiro is younger than she expected a boy with so many younger siblings to be; twelve, thirteen at the oldest. Kneeling over him, Retsu sees a mop of sweat-soaked black hair and thin features. The candle plays shadows over his face but it's plain to see that he's deathly pale and thin as a desiccated corpse. His cheeks are damp and burning.

Retsu frowns, then sighs. No need for the lancet and bowl. No need for any infusions or poultices. No need for compresses, or honey to soothe the throat. No need and no use. She knows the signs and symptoms, knows when it's early enough and when it's too late. She came too late for this one and he, he will be dead by morning, she has no doubt. The illness has too great a hold on his bones to relinquish him now; the mark of death is like a deep black stamp.

Retsu will stay, though. She will stay until Juushiro's body starts to cool and his heart has stopped dead in his chest. _Only a few more hours now_. It's the least she can do. The very least.

_One more lost, one more taken, one more spirited away beyond where we can reach. One more corpse to feed the flames of the pyre waiting outside. If I had come sooner—_

It's going to be a long night.

-0-

In the morning, Juushiro surprises everyone, not least of all Retsu, by not being dead.

Far from being cold and still, when the morning comes Retsu hears a faint, nearly defeated voice waking her up, and Juushiro is propped up on the tatami by his palms. Far from being dead, he is smiling as brightly as he can manage, perfectly affable and genial. His skin is like wax pulled far too tight over his cheekbones, the kimono is like a small boy dressed up in his father's clothes, but he is alive.

Retsu winces and bites her lip briefly. This one is stronger than she gave him credit for.

In the sunlight pouring through the window, Retsu sees something different.

Juushiro's hair isn't black. It's bone white.

And Retsu can't quite bring herself to look at him again. He has stepped forward, and she can't.


End file.
